a French prison cell.
A doctor. She must call a doctor. But she didn’t know how to call a doctor in France. The police? The fire department? Oh my God. What had she done?
The head on her lap moved, no more than a cautious inch. There was a groan, and then one of Max’s eyes opened slowly, looking up past the curve of her bloodstained bosom at her frowning, anxious face.
“Where did you learn to throw like that?”
Christie exhaled, a great gust of relief. “Are you OK? Listen, I am
Max moved his head gingerly. “I think I’ll live,” he said, “but I can’t be moved.” He let his head fall back on her lap, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and groaned again. “Although there is something that might help.”
“What? Anything, anything at all. A doctor? Aspirin? A drink? Tell me.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, would you?”
Christie looked down at her victim’s face. Max opened both eyes, and winked. “I’ve always had a thing about nurses.”
They were both laughing as Christie helped him up and sat him down at the table, where she went to work on his wound with a bowl of water and more paper towels. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said when she had cleaned the gash above his eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re going to need stitches. But what a dumb thing to do. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I probably deserved it,” said Max.
She squeezed his shoulder, took the bowl of bloody water, and emptied it down the sink. “OK. Now what I need is some antiseptic. What do they use here? Do you have any iodine?”
“Never touch it,” said Max. He reached across the table for the bottle of
She dabbed the alcohol on his head, then made a makeshift bandage with strips cut from a clean dish towel. “There,” she said. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the doctor?”
Max started to shake his head, then winced. “Why spoil a nice evening?”
Twelve
The following morning, Max confronted his battered reflection in the shaving mirror, lifting the strip of dishcloth to inspect the livid welt above his left eye. Apart from some tenderness, and a throb of discomfort if he moved his head abruptly, the damage didn’t seem too bad. Doctor Clerc in the village could clean the wound up and dress it in no time. He crept down the stairs, hoping to avoid Madame Passepartout, who, given her love of drama, would undoubtedly want to call Medecins Sans Frontieres and a helicopter full of paramedics.
He crept in vain. She was lying in wait for him outside the kitchen door, with an apprehensive Christie hovering at her side.
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Christie. “I was so worried. I thought you might have, you know, complications-shock, post-accident trauma. I brought you a couple of Advil, but you were asleep. How do you feel?”
Before he could answer, Madame Passepartout clapped both hands to her cheeks in horror. “
Max touched the dishcloth cautiously. “Nothing to worry about. Gardening accident.”
“Last night you were gardening?”
“I know. Silly of me. Mistake to do it in the dark.”
“Don’t move.” Madame Passepartout plucked her cell phone from the pocket of her trousers, today a luminous jungle green. “I will call Raoul.”
“Raoul?”
“Of course Raoul. He has the ambulance.”
Max began to shake his head and regretted it. “Please. I’ll be fine.” He turned to Christie and changed languages. “I’m going to let the doctor in the village take a look at it.”
Christie insisted on driving him, and they left Madame Passepartout on the doorstep, clucking with concern and muttering about concussion and that redoubtable French panacea, the antibiotic.
Half an hour and a tetanus shot later, the bloodstained dishcloth replaced by a more conventional dressing, Max came out of the doctor’s office clutching a sheaf of prescriptions to find Christie in the waiting room. “Don’t ever get sick in France,” he said. “The paperwork’s enough to put you in bed for a week.”
She looked at him and couldn’t help grinning. “I guess the doctor didn’t have a white bandage. Or did you ask for pink?”
They walked down the street to the cafe, arriving just as Roussel was leaving after a restorative early-morning beer. As they shook hands, he peered at Max’s head. “
“Gardening accident,” said Max. He cut short the inevitable questions by introducing Christie to Roussel, who removed his cap with a flourish and bobbed his head. “Enchanted, mademoiselle. So you are staying with Monsieur Max? Then I hope you will be coming with him to dinner tonight. My wife has made a
“Mademoiselle doesn’t speak French,” said Max, “but I know she’d love to come. She likes blood.” With an uncertain smile and a sideways look at Christie, Roussel stumped off, leaving them to their coffee and croissants.
Christie wiped a flake of pastry from her mouth and cradled her cup in both hands, breathing in that wonderful morning smell of coffee and hot milk. “Max, can I ask you a question? What are you saying when they ask what happened to your head? I mean, are you telling them…”
“Gardening accident. I thought it would cut a long story short.”
She leaned over to touch his arm. “Thanks. That’s nice of you.”
It was amazing, Max thought, how a little bloodshed had cleared the air between them. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but Roussel asked us over for dinner tonight, and I accepted. Quite unusual, actually. The French don’t normally invite foreigners into their homes until they’ve known them for at least ten years. It’ll be an experience. Not like dinner in California.”
Christie didn’t answer, her eyes looking past Max at a figure making a beeline for their table. “Better get your gardening story ready. Here comes another one.”
Max looked around to see Nathalie Auzet, sleek in her suit and heels, wearing an amused expression. “I’ve just seen Roussel,” she said. “He told me you’d had a fight with a tree.” She kissed Max lightly on each cheek, and looked at him over the top of her sunglasses. “The pink suits you. Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“I’m fine, but the tree’s in pretty bad shape. Nathalie, I’d like you to meet a friend, Christie Roberts. She’s over from California.”
Nathalie removed the sunglasses to get a better view of Christie before taking her hand. “I might have guessed. Just like the photographs one sees of California girls. They always look so innocent.” Still holding Christie’s hand, she turned to Max.
Max nodded. Christie coughed. Nathalie let go of her hand.
“Now Max, I have some news for you.” Nathalie had put on her sunglasses and a businesslike expression. “I have engaged an
